


Fists that fly dutifully

by Booperesque



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Booperesque/pseuds/Booperesque
Summary: we are at odds with what is good for us.Adam remains on edge and furious. “What if someone had seen you do that?” he hisses.





	1. Chapter 1

                                             

_Intoxicated to the point of_

_being nothing at all_

_and yet everything to him_

_the fistfight following_

_the morning of mist, missed_

_opportunities_

_apologies gone begging_

_as he does_

_taking his coat from the door, yet it doesn’t slam_

_There is a price to pay_

_for that_

_the anonymity now in white walls_

_unplastered without choice_

_a fist_

_imprinted_

_the apartment, with no control_

_for we are,_

_but at odds with ourselves_

_with what is good for us_

_for he should not have left_

_nor been made to leave_

_intoxicated_

_and as human beings we_

_seek out_

_not patient moderation_

 

* * *

 

 It starts to get worse around March.

 

This is something out of Jordan’s control and beyond his knowledge.

 

Worse in hindsight. But hindsight doesn't happen until he thinks about it in August.

 

* * *

 

 “Here, try mine.” Adam twirls his fork half a dozen times and extends his arm over the table. Just as the cutlery is about to reach its acquired target the spaghetti falls gracelessly, colliding with Hendo’s plate amid an obnoxious splattering of sauce. There is tomato smeared from the corner of Jordan’s mouth up across his cheekbone. Adam grimaces. Perhaps realises that twirling is not the most effective way to do _everything_. He doesn't make a mental note of his realisation though. (And it consequently continues to blight every match with ineffectual spirals and unnecessary spinning.)

 

But he tries again, and this time his fork makes it to Jordan's lips.

 

“Not bad.” Hendo mumbles, mouth full and suddenly, distinctly aware of Adam’s foot near his own.

 

“Yes,” Adam smiles defiantly. “Cause I know what to order.”

 

Jordan wants to tell him that he knows Adam doesn’t speak or read Italian. But his train of thought is interrupted by Adam carefully pressing his fork down on his plate, and extending his arm across their food. Oh? Jordan thinks as the hand passes the bread bowl to reach his own face, where a warm finger is suddenly wiping off the marinara smudged across his cheek.

 

“ _That_ was my fault though.” But Jordan’s not listening, can’t help but watch him in dumb silence, as the hand retracts, and Adam licks at his thumb. Grinning as he says: “wow, it’s actually better with your salty-ass sweat.”

 

You see, Jordan doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t realise that this was suddenly allowed. That the invitation for this evening came with an allowance for touching and Adam doing what Simon had kindly informed him largely resembled flirting.

 

“Hey,” Hendo protests weakly as he tries to tear his gaze away. Attempts to refute the banter that is beginning to weigh him down.

 

But Adam just _keeps_ shining at him. His eyes are bright and Jordan’s beginning to wonder whether he’s feeling the same thing.

 

As it turns out, he's not. An outcome that Jordan cannot pretend to be surprised by.

 

His hypothesis had, however, failed to account for being thrown up against a wall. Adam's fist is the first thing to react, lashing outwards and upwards with speed and instinct. Jordan is completely unprepared. His head smashes back into the brick and his teeth clack sharply together and then sink deep into his lip, all of which is punctuated with: “What the _fuck_ Jordan?”

 

The street is empty and Adam is shouting. At him.

 

Hendo unclicks his jaw a couple of times and doesn’t look up from where he is now sitting, slack, against the wall. “I thought,” He tries, numbly. “Thought you wanted me to...” He presses the pad of his thumb to his bottom lip, the warm blood no longer just a trickle. Oxygenated, it’s probably saltier than the sauce Adam had licked from his own thumb.

 

He is not sure what kind of laughter graces his ears, but it sounds bitter. Doesn’t sound like the usual warmth that bubbles out of Adam’s throat in the car, or the locker-room, or their coffee shop. “Wanted you to do _what exactly_ , mate?” is the reply that follows it.

 

And the problem is: Hendo thought that the way Adam looked at him, the way his eyes softened and his face lit up, was an indication of _something_. Anything. The problem is: Hendo thought that Adam wanted this. That maybe, after what was their fifth dinner out together in the last few weeks that he’d have been receptive to a kiss to say goodnight, or, thank you for paying the bill. As far as Hendo is concerned, it’s relatively obvious what he had thought. What he had tried. And yet. He’s pretty sure he has just lost a friend over this. _His_ friend. “Sorry,” he manages dully, redness still dribbling from his lip down his chin.

 

But Adam remains on edge and furious. “What if someone had seen you do that?” he hisses.

 

Dutifully, Hendo looks around. There is no one in sight. This reminds him of the tree falling in the forest scenario. “Nobody is around?” He asks, confused. “So nobody saw it?”

 

Adam snarls. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

 

Hendo has lost count of the number of times that he’s been asked that question. Sometimes at school, jokingly by his mates, always online. But. Never by Adam. He doesn't even have a response. Doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him and why he's just sacrificed the best friendship he's ever had for— nothing. For a bloody lip and that question.

 


	2. Chapter 2

                                              

 

Adam is at his door at 7pm and Hendo is unsure if he has ever been more pleased to see his friend. It has been two weeks and three days since the match when he did his knee and two weeks and five days since they went out for Italian. He hasn’t seen Adam since. These two weeks of self-pity were not accompanied by a friend driving him to the hospital for scans or popping in to check up on him during physio. He leans against the doorframe gingerly. _“Ad,”_

“Thought I’d come and do your dishes and laundry.” says Adam, guiltless as the door softly clicks shut behind him.

 

It’s late, but there is no training tomorrow sans a 2pm gym session. “At this time?” He eyes the many bags Adam is clutching.

 

Adam shrugs, casual with no acknowledgement of causality as he explains: “Was also going to cook you dinner and change your linen if you needed it, what with you being a helpless baby deer and all.”

 

Hendo’s chest tightens a bit, and he decides that the lack of independence must be getting to him. Helpless deer didn’t come across as a term of affection. “Dinner would be good.”

 

Beaming, Adam dumps the bags on the floor, and helps Hendo back down onto the couch. He set the crutches against the coffee table and carefully tucks a pillow under Hendo’s knee. He asks something, Hendo realises belatedly, unable to process anything more than clammy fingers lingering, the pulse of Adam’s thumb beating against the sorest pulse point of his limb.

 

“Is that angle alright?” Adam repeats.

 

Hendo nods cautiously, but he’s keen to avoid talking about himself or any sense of physical feeling or the fact that he hasn’t seen Adam in a really long time. “How was training?”

 

“Was good, yeah.”

 

“What drills did you run?”

 

“Hendo,” Adam starts, his intonation critical. “The usual, lad. Can I make you dinner now?”

 

Hendo sighs, slouches back on the sofa, nods dejectedly. He runs his fingers along the arm of the sofa, drawing patterns with great intent. His thumb is number 9, but his ring and pinkie fingers fail to enact the game plan and he stares at them, betrayed. As useless as his fucking knee.

 

Dinner eventually wafts into the loungeroom and Hendo’s fingers stop tensing with frustration to grasp at cutlery.

 

\---

 

Hendo peers up at his teammate, eyes bright and engaged in the device in front of him. The light from his phone illuminates the best parts of Adam’s face, Hendo decides as he shifts from his side to back and towards the unusual warmth in his bed. “Thanks for doing this, mate.”

 

Adam smiles down at him, placing his phone down on the bed to focus on the man beside him. “It’s alright,” he replies, “I’d do it for anyone.”

 

Jordan's never had anyone like Adam in his life before. Someone he could rely on to do this kind of stuff. To cook him dinner, talk about feelings and— if he's honest. He thought he'd lost him a few weeks ago. But here he is, willingly in Jordan's bed to ensure that his teammate doesn't roll onto his knee in the middle of the night again.  Hendo shuffles up a little to rest his back against the wall, silently declaring that if the weird feeling is indigestion, it will surely dissipate at this angle. “Would you?” He murmurs quietly. Doesn’t need to raise his voice when Adam is around. Adam always listens carefully enough. But. Clarification is important at this stage. Confirmation that he _had_ read all the signs wrong. That Adam would absolutely do it for anyone and that the things he offers Jordan's mental stability- he offers to anyone, and receives back from those far more capable and clever than Jordan. The final acknowledgement that Adam doesn't want _anything_ from him.

 

The answer doesn't seem to be coming as fast as Hendo would like. God, has he managed to fuck it up again? How is that even possible with two words?

 

But the room is dimly lit now, with the streetlights shining through the curvature of the window. Adam watches him with more hesitance than either of them are used to. Hendo, knowing that he is to blame for it, averts his gaze, but he can feel that Adam is still watching him, eyes wide despite the lack of visual clarity in the scene in front of him. He lurches forward and Jordan flinches, afraid he might have nicked that irrationally sensitive part of Adam’s masculinity. But it’s not a fist on his jaw— it's— Jordan’s being kissed. This is not what he was expecting— and the shock has forced the indigestion in his chest to settle, (likely because he’s not really capable of two feelings at once). And for the first time in two weeks it’s not because of the tendons taut and tensing around his knee. He’s not in agony. He opens his mouth to say something, anything. Maybe to thank him? Before he manages to, the hollow space between the roof and floor of his mouth has been claimed by his teammate.

 

Adam is close and hot and breathing through his nose and he’s _kissing_ Jordan with a great deal of determination. With fortitude that no one has ever showed for him before. Jordan reaches for Adam’s face. Clutches it, aligning his fingers to run parallel to Adam’s ears, so he can grasp his whole face. Adam shifts nearer at this, presses his chest closer and more of his weight onto Hendo’s hips, gravitating towards the collective warmth they are suddenly emitting. Jordan focuses on the little throaty, broken noises that Adam’s making and the way his hands are grabbing at the hem of Jordan’s t-shirt. He never knew this could be so tender, that having Adam, face in his hands, hips against his own would flood his body with such warmth. Never knew that he could feel so loved. This is nothing like the first time. Adam’s chest is heaving and he’s panting soft breaths into Hendo’s mouth as they keep kissing, as they keep trying to get as much of each other as physically possible.

 

Maybe Adam wouldn’t do it for _anyone_.

 

\---

 

“That was kinda nice, Ads.” Hendo says after a while, when they are laying down again, after longer that was strictly necessary for the regulation of their breathing patterns.

 

“What was?”

 

He frowns. “The kissin—”

 

“I didn’t do anything.”

 

Jordan exhales deeply, but the body beside him is suddenly tense. Not as warm as ten minutes ago. Ah. “Alright.”

 

Adam shifts away from him. “I have to—” He stutters, pushing himself up, and out of the bedroom.

 

As far as Jordan is concerned, even if he could have gotten up, jogging after him wouldn’t be his first plan of action.

 

He can hear Adam throwing up in the bathroom. It’s not a nice thought. That he did this to him. That he made Adam physically sick. But he can’t get it out of his head.

 

Adam is on his knees, having cursed when they hit the tiles with greater force and velocity than he’d intended. But the pain is deserved. He gags and loses the protein gained from his dinner. And continues. Until there is nothing left. Until there is no trace of Jordan in his mouth. Until the bile has risen, and coated the back of his tongue and throat. Adam sobs hoarsely, gripping the toilet bowl desperately. His clothes are a mess, but. This needed to happen.

 

Jordan can’t listen to it any longer, rolls over on his side, core tensing to avoid exacerbating his injury.

 

\---

 

And he wakes, sun streaming through the blinds, to Adam curled around his left flank, an outreached hand resting on Jordan's knee, warming the surrounding muscles. Ads has always paid meticulous attention to physical therapy operations (always taking notes in order to establish the ways in which it is or isn't appropriate to touch a teammate, a _man_ ). And it's he that Jordan has to thank for not being woken by his spasming knee, or cramping in his core from a whole night tensing for the first time in a week.

 

It's he, it's _Adam_ , who Jordan didn't expect to be here in the morning at all. He’s the best friend that Jordan’s ever had. He’s the only friend Jordan’s ever fallen in love with. Adam’s wearing a t-shirt of Jordan’s now, one of his soft white ones, and his hair is tousled and _he stayed_. Jordan made him throw up and he still stayed. He’s still. Here, warming Jordan’s knee and breathing quietly. Calmly. Jordan wants to touch his hair. Restrains himself. His friend deserves better than that. And he doesn’t want to unintentionally force Ads into the foetal position against the toilet bowl again. He shifts away from him, rolling a pillow up against Adam’s body and reaching for his crutches. He stands gingerly and everything hurts again. The warmth, pressure, and human touch gone, and his muscles are taut and yet to be stretched because he overslept.

 

He rolls out his yoga mat in the backroom. Tries not to think of how nice it would have been to curl back into Adam. Tries not to think of how nice it would be to wake up to someone, to spend Sunday morning lazing about together. Doesn’t remember, if ever, the last time that happened.

 

Yoga hurts. His shower makes everything worse when he slips and bruises his hip in a desperate attempt to protect his knee from further damage. Deep heat cream finally brings some relief.

 

Jordan didn’t realise it when he was in bed, but Adam left his jeans in the bathroom as well. So he’s only wearing cotton boxers and Jordan’s t-shirt when he walks in on Jordan during his second round of yoga. “Hey,” Adam says, a little hoarse as he rubs his collarbone, exposing soft skin in the process.

 

“Mornin’ Ads,” Jordan smiles. “I’ll be a few more minutes and then I can make coffee?”

 

“No mate. I was going to make you breakfast. Slept in though.”

 

Jordan has to restrain himself yet again. Wants to ask how Adam slept. If he’s okay. If he wants to leave right now and just never come back.

 

“How you feeling?”

 

“Sore,” Jordan admits. “But thanks for staying. I didn’t cramp up or roll onto my knee.”

 

Adam smiles earnestly, as though nothing brings him greater pleasure than being a good friend. Jordan wants to apologise for kissing him.

 


End file.
